I felt another mighty kick, “No, no,” I laughed, “he’s rugby player,” another thump, “there’s a flying tackle,” and at that I hugged them both back to sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sheep and Men
“The Valkyrie must have weighed anchor before daylight.” No doubt I sounded pleased. Eilidh rose and stood beside me at the bedroom window. A week had passed without Anderson venturing across to see us, nor did I risk another visit to him. The yacht had sailed and her destination was of no matter. The whole episode, from his outlandish arrival to this abrupt departure, contained elements which made me uneasy. The threats which a drunken man had levelled at Goldberg couldn’t possible involve us here on Sandray, could it? What ever might be the nature of ‘the job’ Anderson threatened to carry out, it seemed he intended to deal in some way with an eminent scientist whose appearance on the island I found extremely disturbing.
“I’m glad the bay is empty again, the seals need peace,” her relief matched my own. The misgivings which I tried to hide gave way to a quiet euphoria, the quality of a peace without people. Eilidh put her arm round me. I looked down at a body made lovelier by the fullness of expectancy. Every curve of womanhood touchable, I caressed her back and believed there could be nothing more beautiful than the radiance of this woman awaiting the birth of our child.
She smiled at up me in the way of that first fleeting contact, the same unfathomable, ocean blue eyes which had transmitted such a compelling vision, created the pivotal moment that drew me to find her in these islands of sea -washed light; and now in this translucent haven, to attempt to live the echo of an illusion. The consummate happiness at our being alone dispelled such thoughts, the will to make an island home redoubled, and yet, who is not a little afraid of happiness?
Using our two boats I ferried across fencing material, farm gates, posts, wire and tools, all I needed was the know how. Studying the fences which Eachan had built over the years on Ach na Mara provided the theory. Forty hectares of Sandray’s pastures awaited a sheep proof fence, not to mention the hectare already dug and soon to begin growing our supply of potatoes and vegetables. A week into building fences, I discovered that mastering the tricks of a computer were more easily acquired than gaining the knack of doing a job which to the layman looked simple.
Strip to the waist weather, swinging a fourteen pound mell round and round, smack on the top of each post, driving them down, inches at a blow, it opened the shoulders and sent a trickle of sweat down the back. Straight runs, corners, tightening and knotting the wires, twelve days and a few mistakes, our first field was fenced. Long days and Muille my companion, simple tools were all I had, and the luxury of time. Rest a hand on a post and watch a skylark alighting after its carefree song, stroll to the tussock hideaway they’d chosen to shelter their grass weavings. My fondness was for the little brown meadow pipits. Tramp the fence line hammering in staples and they’d flutter up from my feet. Their squeaky song had the charm of modesty.
May had given me the bracing days when the sea’s reflection seemed brighter than the sky. Each morning and afternoon Eilidh brought out oatcakes and a kettle of tea. We’d sit quietly sharing something of a working picnic. Cup in hand, I rested on an elbow, a calmness that was on the Atlantic gave it a breadth I hadn’t seen before, “I never weary of watching the sea, the ocean looks bigger today than I’ve ever seen it.”
Turning to me from gazing seawards, “No nor I,” and her smile shone through eyes, bright as the sparkle that bounced off the sea. “I was counting the different shades of blue from here to the horizon. Eachan always said the ocean has a mind and a soul. If he’s blowing smoke from the wave tops his temper’s up and he’s better left alone, but on a day like this when he’s stretched out flat Eachan would say, the old man’s happy sunning himself.” Our happiness seemed boundless as the ocean we watched, and in the warmth of the day I pulled her down beside me; my brown arms hugged her growing body and face to face, we too lay in the sun.
Ella had put her heart into the lambing of Eachan’s ewes, we guessed it brought them together. Early and late round the croft, Rab the old collie helped her to catch any ewe in trouble and gradually the drawn lines of bereavement became the rosy face of recovery. A batch of twenty ewes with twin ewe lambs at foot awaited our collection. At dawn before the sea wakened I brought the Hilda alongside the Halasay pier. Iain and Ella already had the bleating bunch penned on the end of the jetty. A full tide raised the Hida’s gunnel almost level with its edge.
Milling ewes terrified at the sight of water, lambs springing onto mother’s backs, how to load such a scrum? No hesitation -Iain caught a lamb in each hand and dangled them down to me by their forelegs, “Wait, I’ll give you another pair,” another two lambs dangled down, “hold them by the front legs, keep them in the bow and don’t let them go,” Four legs in each hand and four lots of bleating, I clambered up to the bow.
Quick as he’d given me the lambs, two ewes were caught and manhandled into the boat, more lambs caught and dropped onto the bottom boards, half a dozen ewes were bundled after them and the rest began to jump aboard. “Let your lambs go!” he called. I jumped ashore to help Iain force aboard the remaining few. My introduction to sheep handling, a boat full of large frightened eyes and the Hilda low in the water with a living cargo.
Iain was already untying ropes, “They’ll settle once you’re on the move.” I wasted no time. “Run the boat on the beach, get a hold of a couple of lambs and draw them along the ground by the front legs up to your field and the ewes will jump out of the boat and follow.” Swinging the Hilda away from the jetty, I heard Iain’s final advice above the roar of my outboard engine, “Keep your young dog on a string!” Ella waved, “Take care.” Eachan’s sheep heading for Sandray, what would be in her thoughts?
We were making a slow crossing. Overloaded? To my surprise the sheep were uncannily silent, not a bleat. More surprising, water was sloshing over the bottom boards. A deeply laden Hilda had begun taking in water between her upper planking. I steered and pumped, jets of water shot over the side. Eilidh out on the headland and the young dog prancing at her heel, I couldn’t wave. A sharp morning breeze from the east came with the sunrise.
Wavelets appeared, slopping against the hull. Sheep around the edge of the boat shook their ears, they didn’t like it, and for a vastly different reason, neither did I. Glancing ahead again, Eilidh had vanished. Approaching the headland, still pumping hard, how badly were we leaking, difficult to tell. The water sloshing at my feet became slightly deeper, the pump hardly copping. I leaned over the gunnel, ten inches of freeboard. I throttled back.
Guessing Eilidh’s intention, I willed her to appear. Thank the lord, up ahead a shower of spray and the bow of Eilidh’s boat. Cutting speed abruptly, she swung in astern. I worried for the sheep and the boat we’d been given. Half waterlogged, she moved sluggishly. I eased round the point, close as I dared. Some sheep might get ashore if the worst happened.
Edging us into the bay, out of the wind, a water- borne shepherd with a very tired arm steered for the sandy beach below the house. Barely moving, twenty yards out, a gentle crunch and the Hilda grounded. Over the side, waist deep, grabbing the bow rope I waded ashore.
Eilidh hurried round from the jetty, “Woman, was I glad to see you crewing the lifeboat.” The laugh of relief sounded in her voice, “I could see water spouting over the side, no need to let him get any wetter than you are now.” Such impudence got her a wee smack on the bottom.I emptied my wellies and seriously, “no looking,” I stripped off and wrung out my trousers.
The sheep seemed to know their transport was safely aground, ewes heads went up and the bleating started. “Tomorrow to fresh fields and pastures new,” I wagged a scholarly finger, “for you lot it’s today.” The young Muille dog fixed her eye on her future charges. She and I would need to start training for shepherding duties. “Eilidh, keep her on a rope!” we all three were excited.
Twenty minutes
of falling tide and the Hilda lay over in a few inches of water. Not as deft as Iain, I pulled a couple of lambs from amongst what sounded a mutiny. Going by his instruction, I trailed the squirming creatures a little way up the beach. A duet of loud bleating brought anxious replies from the boat. Sure as Iain’s prediction, two ewes scrambled over the side, splashed through the shallow water and cautiously approached to sniff their lambs. Mothering instinct did the trick. Keeping hold of the lambs, I walked a few steps at a time. The mothers followed, a shade suspicious, until, as if by a signal, the boat emptied in one noisy stampede.
Pied Piper style, I drew our flock up through the dunes and onto the machair. Eilidh kept behind them, not too close, the trainee sheep dog firmly on a rope. Still carrying the two lambs by their front legs, very quietly I drew their mothers through my new gateway and set the decoys on their feet. Off they bounded, no ways the worse. The remainder eyed the gateway, their flock mates were already grazing. We stood, not a move. Would they make a break and head for the open hill? Is this another con? First, one vaulted over some suspected booby trap into the field, a moment’s study and the rest, judging it safe, entered with same precautionary leap.
Immediately every ewe’s head bent down and muffled bleats from mouths full of grass called lambs to their sides. We stood at the gate watching them mother up until they became pairs of white dots spreading over the sweet grass of early summer. “The first sheep on Sandray in nearly a hundred years,” Eilidh sounded just a wee bit emotional. “Soon they’ll be checking my fences,” I said with mock concern, and at that we laughed for the sheer pleasure of it all.
“If the bottom line is a healthy lifestyle then a hill shepherd must be on a top salary,” my lightsome comment came as we climbed to the top of the field, neither of us out of breath. Eilidh patted her bump, “And the boy and I are getting all the exercise that’s needed.” Our dawn round of the ewes and lambs, drinking hill air, clean and fresh, as June light pulled islands out of the horizon; if happiness was in a casket, life in the hills held the key.
Still, amidst the contentment I fell to staring down at the old home we were renovating, it can only have been transitory, there was smoke at the lum, people busy scything hay and children ran about, until they faded into nothing and the house crumbled into nettles. Lines written beneath the white Australian sun went through my head, ‘At the shieling was their happiness, only tears remain, and the generations live on song, and doors creak for their return and happiness clings to the winds of their going.’
I became aware Eilidh watched me. Muille stayed at my heel. Bending, I pulled her ear and got a wagging tail in return. Tips on her training were being supplied by Eilidh’s childhood memories of her father’s collies. “Iain will bring his dogs over to gather the ewes for the clipping,” and speaking to the dog, “then Muille you’ll see how it’s done.” My learning curve had to be just as steep, “Don’t suppose there’s a manual on sheep clipping,” catching Eilidh’s hand I grinned, “and next the baby will be born.” Swinging my hand as children will do, she tossed unruly hair, golden as early light on hill pastures and in the fragrance of summer growth we walked down to the house.
I was busy, extremly busy converting the old byre into a bathroom. Outside drains were dug, plumbing parts scattered a concrete floor I’d laid, bath, wash hand basin, pipes and a shower unit leant against the wall. I had an electricity supply to arrange before the next winter. Luckily the old stone walls were dry and sound, I’d strapped and packed them with insulation and was cutting plywood when Eilidh came from the kitchen, “I see a launch at the jetty, I think it’s a Castleton boat, hope nothing’s wrong with Ella,” and after a pause, knowing I’d thrown mine away, “You know Hector, perhaps we should have the mobile phone, in case she needs help.” A shade glumly I nodded. “You’re right, until I get power supply fixed up we can always get it charged when we’re across on the mainland,” as we jokingly called Halasay.
“Whoever it is will come to the house,” I said as Eilidh went back to the kitchen. In the midst of cutting a large sheet of ply I was unwilling to stop. A man’s voice at the door startled me. “Hector Mackenzie?” Caught unawares, I spun round. Disbelief turned to shock; filling the only doorway as though to prevent escape, I stared at two uniformed policemen.
Neither moved from the door, the one whom I recognised as the Castleton police sergant repeated my name although he knew it perfectly well. Bristling slightly at the questioning tone I replied, “Is there any way I can help?” His counter was blunt, “Well now, Mr. Mackenzie, I hope this won’t be difficult,” a little pause, “for your sake.” I hadn’t ever bothered to go along to the station over the drowning of that supposed archaeologist. My God, surely not arrest?
Eilidh’s flushed face appeared behind them, she spoke to them in the Gaelic, “The kettles boiling, you’ll be needing a srupach after coming over the Sound.” It broke a mounting tension, “Well now Eilidh, we’ll be in shortly,” he too spoke in the Gaelic. I understood their brief exchange and awaited their next move. The Halasay policeman reached into his tunic and held out an envelope towards me, “You’d better read it, Mr MacKenzie.” I eyed him straight. I was trapped. The urge to fight coursed red and blazing; about to spring at them animal like, I was on the edge of going berserk. They must have spotted my ready fists. The younger man stepped forward. I tipped onto the balls of my feet. “For sake of Eilidh, Mr. Mackenzie, just cool it,” the sharp words of the older Halasay man stopped me. Ashamed and not a little stupid, “I’m sorry gentlemen,” I said and taking the envelope, “Come on into the old kitchen and see the changes we’ve made, I’ll read this when you’re at your tea.” I admired the old bobby’s tactic.
Through we went to the smell of flour and Eilidh busy at the stove. Of course she knew the local policeman, “Now MacNeil, I never heard you say no to a pancake straight off the girdle.” Sergeant MacNeil put his peaked hat on the table and sat down, “Yes, you have me there.” The young Constable remained sullen, saying nothing, his eye not leaving me.
Mugs of tea steamed before us. “You’ll have to make do with powder milk,” cautioned Eilidh, “don’t worry we’ll have a cow to milk before the winter.” I forced a smile. The Sergeant looked uncomfortable. None the less he and Eilidh blethered away, sometimes lapsing into Gaelic. I understood enough to learn Ella was well. The atmosphere relaxed to a degree. The envelope lay at my elbow, unopened. Rather pointedly, the Constable clearing his throat, pushed back his chair and stood up. MacNeil ignored him and continued telling Eilidh a story about her grandfather falling into the harbour, “and I’m keeping an eye on your brother, Iain,” he finished with a wink at me. In spite of the occasion, I warmed to the man. The old Highland style is difficult to gainsay. He won, in his own way.
Running a finger along the flap I opened the envelope. Thick official paper, folded in three, stark black lettering,
Unauthorised Occupation Property Act revised 1973.
Warrant by Order of the Lochmaddy Sheriff Court this the Twenty-first day of June in the year two thousand and ten.
Island of Sandray.
I hereby give notice to the removal forthwith from the above island of any person or persons and all chattels thereby pertaining to them, and whatever livestock, alive or dead as may be integral and any further encumbrance as may form any part of the occupancy and be deemed prejudicial to a total clearance of the aforesaid Island of Sandray in the Parish of Halasay, Outer Hebrides.
Legal jargon poured down the page. Unbelieving of the words I read the bottom lines,
I hereby receive this warrant and agree to abide by the order.
Name and Signature, --------------- Signature of two witnesses ------------------- Date
Signed, Brian Shuttleworth, Sheriff Officer, Lochmaddy, North Uist.
The document fell on the table. I watched it curl back to its three original creases. The trap was closing. Two silent policemen; a smirking young constable and a thoughtful Sergeant, merely t
ools of the system, carrying out their duty. I stood up and went to the window. My eye followed the sweep of white sand into what had seemed an unending blueness, an existence that needed no requiem; in its simplicity I had glimpsed a reality that needed no lamentation. As the carving of an unrelenting sea will do, the surge of change beats a yawning cavern of desolation, grinding cliffs, consuming land, devouring peace and planet, forcing the tramping mass towards an airless chamber.
The sky faded. Sunless streets pointed to domes of arrogance, concrete leered down at me; I read the flashing neon sign, you fools there is no escape. Light filtered through the shutters of a modern world, its unending clank, the curling fumes unnoticed, halogen blue and wailing siren, you fools there is no escape, no escape from the growing walls of artificiality, the entrance to a tunnel of darkness. There is no escape.
I spun abruptly. The two men rose sharply, “And what if I don’t sign this warrant?” my voice was low. Sergeant MacNeil met my eye without flinching, he said nothing. The silence lengthened. Without taking my eye from MacNeil, I heard the Constable say with a barely suppressed snigger, “Don’t worry Mr. MacKenzie, we’ll be back with the Sheriff Officers.” The sergeant quelled him with a savage look and going to the door, “I’ll leave it with you Mackenzie. In your own interests, come across to the station.”
Without my realising, as I’d stood at the window, Eilidh had been handed the document to read. Her face drained of colour. Its whiteness emphasised the intense blueness of her eyes, proudly fierce in their defiance, “Make no mistake, Roddy MacNeil, our child will be born on this island, as were the generations of his forebears.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
A mouth too wide
“Yeah, and this ain’t no bullshit I’m a telling you ma friends,” Anderson’s American accent cut across the rumble of local voices which formed a background to an early Friday evening in the Castleton bar. Weeks had passed since the Valkyrie had anchored in the harbour below the hotel and her skipper became the daily fixture on a bar stool. Sometimes he talked to the locals in riddles, wild talk of financial crash and nuclear war; they listened politely until his ranting became incoherent. Finally he would succumb to staring fixedly at pages of The Ocean Navigators Handbook which he always carried, before proceeding to drink morosely until last orders. Although Hotelier MacLeod had long since tired of hearing Anderson rambling about thieving banks, faulty nuclear installations and the sabre rattling Pentagon, he realised that the man seemed privy to information which in some quarters might be deemed highly sensitive.
Sun Dance Page 35